Peak Bay Area
I wake up gently in my Market Street apartment at 6:27am — just three minutes before my alarm is set to go off — to another beautiful rainbow dawn which is threatening to become a sunrise over the bay. I think to myself, Today is going to be a wonderful day. I open the sliding glass door and step onto my balcony to snap a quick picture of the view with my phone, capturing all of Market Street, the financial district, downtown, the bay, and the sky in one frame. I text the photo to my boyfriend, who lives in an artist warehouse in West Oakland and is a percussionist in a columbian folk music band, even though I know he won’t be awake for another couple of hours.
The balcony is sprawling with container garden plants that never quite thrive in the consistently, kinda slightly just-too-cool ness of San Francisco, but I nonetheless feel pride in the five swiss chard leaves and handful of radish sprouts I see there.
I fall back into bed and check my email, noting I have a message in my inbox from classpass. I remember I haven’t used any of last month’s credits yet. Because I decided to put my triathlon training on hold. So why bother to go eight whole blocks to the gym to go swimming? I can just run and bike from home! But classpass now has wellness services, and I twist my face up trying to imagine if I will love or hate acupuncture. I commit to giving it a try. I remind myself to be present and not give in to the minor irritation that they don’t have any appointments available beyond four days from now.
Today is going to be a wonderful day.
I stretch and then change into gym clothes because I have an appointment at the VR gym on the ground floor of the building I live in. I breathe a sigh of relief when I pass the security desk in the lobby because I see security guard who is always too eager to talk to me isn’t there. As I pass the Starbucks, I see he is telling someone peeing on the sidewalk they need to leave, but he still manages to squeeze in a bright, loud Good morning at me as I breeze by. I spend exactly 30 minutes in the 10 foot square air conditioned room, listening to the same carefully crafted EDM playlist I’ve listened to three times per week since the beginning of July. I deploy champions and execute attacks by completing various exercises on the versatile, automatically adjusted, magnetic cable machine. I crush my opponent 7500–0, as I knew I would, and flex in my mind when the game ends and I see the one rep maximum for each of the exercises has increased.
On the way to my apartment, I pass the front entrance instead of going through, aiming for the side door to the elevators so I can revel in the peace of my recently completed work out instead of awkwardly trying to figure out what to do with myself in the thirty-seven steps it takes me to get across the lobby. Just as the door begins to close, the too-eager security guard runs in, sticking his hand through the closing door. He takes out a ring of keys, and starts fiddling with the elevator. Opening the service panel and looking in, but clearly not actually doing anything. Sorry, it’s been acting up, he explains. I hope we don’t get stuck in here. He laughs, I cringe.
After locking myself into my apartment once more, I walk to the fridge and remove a slender glass bottle, full to the brim with a deep magenta liquid. I remove the silver cap and sip the passionfruit hibiscus lemonade which I made myself. Normally, I invest in a cart full of fruits and vegetables to juice at home each week, gifting myself a bottle full of vitamins and minerals to start each day. But this week I had been busy, and the lemonade is always a trusty fall back. At least I made it with real lemons, I console myself. I’m simultaneously feeling the pride of not yet having eaten breakfast, and also the discomfort in thinking that pride is a disordered thought.
I check the day’s schedule in my calendar while I brush my prior thoughts aside. I have a Safeway delivery this morning and I wonder if they will be on time in the same thought where I acknowledge they have historically not ever been on time. I also frown, knowing I will receive two or three items in my delivery, seemingly chosen at random, to replace whichever out-of-stock items I ordered. I choose to embrace Safeway’s chronic tardiness and head to Whole Foods to pick up tempeh, the one item Safeway never has.
After starting a new running activity on my Garmin watch, I set off on the run through SOMA wearing my visually-too-loud Fabletics gear; dodging broken and abandoned Lime scooters and poop every few yards on the sidewalk. I half-jokingly wonder to myself whether it it human or dog poop. I earnestly tell myself no one knows for sure. I decide I don’t want to think about poop anymore and instead focus on activating my glutes to keep my knees from collapsing in, like my sports chiropractor told me to do. I realize she’d be proud.
At Whole Foods, I quickly navigate to the Meat Alternatives section and take the four remaining packages of tempeh. I also realize I want to make a vegan sausage and cheese pizza for dinner, so I grab a wedge of parmesan. I browse the section for any other items I might want, even though I know I won’t buy them because they don’t fit into my carefully crafted weekly meal plan. The self-checkout goes more-or-less as expected, except when it comes time to select whether to buy a bag. I struggle to envision whether having one will be more or less cumbersome for my run back home. I decide against it. For the environment.
I jog back out onto the sidewalk, items in hand. Somehow this is the breaking point for me that makes me realize the absurdity of myself and all that I represent in this moment. I imagine what I look like from the outside. One pound of Lightlife tempeh in each hand and a wedge of Violife parmesan hanging in my running belt, beaming ear to ear as I fly down Potrero Hill. Taking in the sun, practically manic with enthusiasm for the day for no reason at all while the world suffers around me. A classic California caricature of semi-spirituality and borderline fitness & health food zealot.
I’m unsure if I’m happy or disappointed my run will only be 2.75 miles today. I debate with myself whether or not it is even worth it if I don’t run at least 3 miles. I decide I can manage to cool it with the judgmental self-talk and remind myself many people aren’t able to move their bodies like I can. I thank the stars I have legs. And that they work. I give myself one point on my imaginary scoreboard (like my therapist suggested) for not militaristically pushing myself into soul-crushing amounts of exercise. I am thankful I have enough resources to afford a therapist that works well for me. I feel the entire universe hugging me and taking care of me, and feel blessed that me (of all people!) would get to have Jupiter in the first house — a sign of lifelong luck and success no matter what I choose to do in life.
Upon arriving home, I decide I’m now definitely hungry and pull my toaster out so I can prepare some of the cinnamon raisin sourdough bread I made over the weekend. I spread it with Miyoko’s cultured vegan butter and enjoy the toast with a fermented rice drink I was gifted by my boyfriend’s mom, who lives in Capitola. I open my Macbook Pro while I eat, quickly writing this article before starting for the day at my software engineering job that pays me more in a year than I’m worth, completely unable to enjoy a moment of relaxation or mindfulness between the ever-merging whirlwind of activities that are my life.
I write and chuckle to myself, still tickled somehow by how completely ridiculous I am. I give myself some credit for recognizing and appreciating my privilege. I cringe anticipating that I will still find something to complain about in the world. I hear my dad in my ear saying That’s some life you’ve got, and I roll my eyes and ignore him like I’ve been doing for the last three decades.
The Safeway delivery person knocks on my door just before I press publish on this Medium article, only two hours late. And I grin knowing that today will be another beautiful, easy, sunny day.
